


What Should Never Be

by detritius



Series: Wincestverse (Originally posted on tumblr) [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Reality, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, POV Alternating, Sexual Content, alcohol and questionable choices are involved and that's all i know for sure, like so dubious i don't even know and i wrote the thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4138065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of "What Is and What Should Never Be." In a timeline where their mother never died, the Winchester brothers are estranged and Dean needs to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Should Never Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is, admittedly, one of the weirder things I've written. It's an AU of an AU, I had to keep track of different versions of the characters, and to this day, I'm not really sure if it fits together in a way that makes sense. I'm still proud of it, though, if only because it's so different from the more straightforward, single-POV stuff I was doing at the time.
> 
> Like a couple of my older fics, there's an audio version of this, which I might put up if I can figure out how.
> 
> I finished this in December of 2011. Even though it's season two-centric, this is the last full Supernatural fic I finished before getting mired in crossovers for like a year and ultimately stumbling into other fandoms.

In all his life, Dean’s never known peace like this. Standing out on the back porch under the clouded suburban stars, he cracks open another beer and takes a long draught, letting the quiet of the night settle over him. There’s nothing out there in the dark but crickets and cicadas and maybe the last of the late summer fireflies, though most of him can’t quite believe it. He leans against the porch railing and sighs and tries to stop waiting to wake up. He takes another drink to quell the feeling, and then another after that, and just when he’s beginning to accept all of this, Sam lays a hand on his arm.

“Hey,” he says, “slow down.” He’s got that familiar negotiating look on his face, a look his Sam mostly used on reluctant witnesses and never on him.

“‘m fine, Sammy,” he says, though suddenly, he doesn’t feel it. He reaches for the bottle again.

“Okay, no you’re not,” Sam says, taking the bottle out of his hand. Dean could grab it back from him, struggle for it, but he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. Instead, he just watches as Sam sets the bottle down and settles back with his elbows propped on the railing, his long body stiff and hunched. Sam sees him watching and looks away, takes a sip of his own beer and stares out into the darkness. “What’s gotten into you, Dean?”

There’s no way he can explain it, so he just says, “Nothing.”

“Sure,” Sam says, and they lapse into silence again. And Dean’s never been much for small talk, but this is nothing like the quiet moments he’s shared with his Sam. It’s just empty, so much that he feels trapped inside his own skin. Time coils tight, and he’s searching for something to say when Sam beats him to it. “Why’d you drag me out here, anyway?” he asks. “I have work I could be doing, you know.”

Of course. This Sam has school and a fiancee and a _life_ , and he’s not part of any of it. His mouth fills up with a jagged, bitter taste, and he wishes he had his drink back. “I know,” he says. “I know you do.” He barely gets the next words out. “I just want to spend some time with my little brother, that’s all.”

“Since when, Dean?” Sam asks, bitterly. “I know you like to pretend you’re part of this family, but since when do you give a fuck about me?”

Dean’s heart clenches tight in his chest. He doesn’t remember the car crash that almost killed him, the sickening moment of impact that crushed his ribs and shattered his skull, but if he did remember, he imagines it would have felt something like this. He tries to draw breath and can’t, tries to say something, but his mouth gapes open uselessly. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” He sighs and buries his head in his hands. “It’s just… Well, you know, man.” He stares out into the middle distance. “We’re civil to each other when we have to be,” he says. “We act like nothing happened for Mom’s sake because that’s what you wanted. But it’s just us now. You can drop the act.”

“There’s - there is no act, Sammy,” Dean says, just getting his voice back. “Is it so hard to believe that I - that I care about you?”

“I know you do,” Sam says. Swallows. “And that just makes it worse, doesn’t it?” He stares down at the rough wood of the porch between his feet, and that’s what he’s addressing when he speaks again. “You know I wish it never happened,” he whispers, “that I’d give anything to take it back. I want things to be right between us. You’re still my brother, even…” He doesn’t finish, and he looks down and away, shutting Dean out. “But you can’t even look at me when you’re sober,” he says. “Not for five years now.”

Dean takes a deep breath and turns to face his brother. “Sam,” he says, “listen. I’m sorry, okay? For…” He doesn’t even know what it is he did. “For everything.” Sam’s hands are in his pockets, and he doesn’t look up at him. “I mean it,” Dean says. “I - I know I haven’t always done right by you, and I wanna make up for that. Please. Please, Sammy.” And when Sam’s still staring down at his hands or the rough wood of the deck, Dean cups his cheek and angles his face down toward his own. “Hey,” he breathes, “just look at me.”

“Dean -” he protests, but he trails off when their eyes meet. There’s something soft and familiar about the way Sam’s looking at him, until he blinks hard and makes himself look away. “You don’t…” he starts, and his voice catches in his throat. “No,” he says. “No.” He shrugs Dean’s hands off him roughly and staggers back a step, still looking anywhere but at Dean’s face. “You don’t even know what you’re saying,” he says brokenly. “You’re drunk. You’re drunk and you don’t mean any of this.”

“I mean it,” Dean says softly, “I promise.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says. “Whatever you say, Dean.” He sighs and runs his hands over his face. “I’m gonna call Carmen, alright? Get her to take you home.”

Without thinking, he reaches out and grabs Sam’s wrist. “Wait,” he says, “Don’t send me away, Sammy, please. Not yet. I wanna make this right. I want us to be a family again.” And when Sam still won’t look at him, “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” he begs. “Whatever you want, Sammy, I mean it. Just please don’t send me away.”

Sam looks down at Dean’s big, rough hand on his arm, then slowly up to his face, meeting his eyes for just a second. Whatever he sees makes him turn away, leaning out over the railing again. “You don’t get it, do you?” he asks, his voice thin. “You wouldn’t even be saying this if you weren’t -” His face knots up, trying to hold something back. “God, Dean!” he chokes out. “You aren’t even gonna remember this in the morning!”

“You don’t know that,” Dean says. “You can’t. Please, Sammy -”

“Stop. Stop it.” HIs voice is dead all of a sudden, his posture stiff and distant. “I know what this is about, alright?” He sighs. “We’ve done this before, Dean.” He looks out into the darkness and takes a deep breath. “You say you don’t remember what happened the night of my graduation party,” he says, “but I do. I remember all of it.”

 

“Sammy,” Dean whispers. Says it again, like that’s the only thing in his head right now. He’s got a heavy arm wrapped around Sam’s shoulders, dragging himself up on the balls of his feet so he can reach Sam’s ear, breathing hot into it. “So proud of you, man,” he slurs, his lips brushing the shell of Sam’s ear, making him shiver. “So much.”

“I know,” Sam says, for maybe the fourth or fifth or hundredth time tonight. “I know you are.” He sighs. A few years ago, he would have done almost anything to hear that from his brother, and now, when he thought he’d given up on him, when he’s so close to leaving and it shouldn’t even matter anymore, it finally happened in just about the worst way possible. Dean’s clinging to Sam like a lifeline, whispering the words in a desperate invocation, as if Sam will set him adrift if he stops. It pours out of him, over and over again, like he thinks he can make up for eighteen years of disinterest and distain if he says it now all the times he should have said it before. And Sam can tell from the smell of his breath and the way he’s letting Sam support most of his weight and the maudlin, sappy, _needy_ mood he’s in that Dean is sloppy drunk, and probably doesn’t even remember what he’s saying minute to minute, but goddamn it, hearing this from him still means more than he’d ever admit. Maybe this whole graduation thing is making him soft and sentimental, or maybe it’s just because he’s none too sober himself, but there’s a part of him that needs this from Dean, needs it so much more than all the shallow congratulations he’s gotten tonight from his parents’ friends and extended family that it doesn’t even feel like the same thing. He hates himself for it, hates Dean a little bit, too, but he wouldn’t give this up for anything.

The party’s on its last legs now, and people are starting to say their goodbyes. He gave up on trying to shake Dean off hours ago, so he stands by the door and smiles and makes pleasantries the best he can with his brother hanging off him and slurring gently in his ear. Though his own vision’s gone soft from a couple of beers and a few sips stolen from Dean’s rarely-empty glass, he doesn’t miss the way his parents’ respectable friends breeze right past Dean when they’re making their polite goodbyes, the way they look at him like he’s something that just crawled out of the gutter. He almost hopes Dean’s too far gone to see it himself. He shakes a few more hands and watches the last of the guests filter out of the house, and when he finally shuts the door behind them, he nearly slumps in relief. It’s just him and Dean now, alone in the after-party clutter of abandoned paper plates, empty glasses, dark glass bottles standing like sentinels. Vaguely, he starts to gather some plates together the best he can with Dean still weighing him down, but his mother sweeps up to him and takes the plates out of his hand. “Honey,” she says, beaming up into his face, “you don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t want to leave you with a mess -” he protests, but she stops him.

“Your dad and I can handle it,” she says. “This is your night and we want you to enjoy it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, trying not to look too relieved to be getting out of helping. Trying not to look drunk or disappointed or a bunch of other things.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” She reaches up, touches his cheek. “Your father and I are so proud of you,” she says. And with one last glowing smile over her shoulder, she’s gone.

The kitchen door closes behind her, and Sam can hear the low murmur of her voice and Dad’s, barely audible over the sounds of clinking glass and running water as they clean up from the night’s festivities. It was more for them than for him, anyway, he thinks as he hears the high bubbling of his mother’s laughter. An excuse to get a whole bunch of people together and maybe show off a little bit, how much better they did with their second son. His party for his own friends had been the week before, and he’d spent much more time just enjoying himself than nodding along as the thousandth person told him how well he’s going to do at college. God, no wonder he ended up drinking too much.

Which brings him back around to Dean again. If he’s drunk, Dean must be fucking wrecked, not that Sam can blame him. All these people treating him like he doesn’t even exist just because he’s got a GED and a shitty blue-collar job. Really, it’s a wonder he didn’t bail this time, even if he mentally checked out hours ago. Now, he’s staring at the door between them and their parents with an unreadable look on his face that he clumsily tries to mask when he catches Sam looking. “Well, Sammy,” he says, abrupt and awkward, “thanks for havin’ me.” He claps Sam on the back a little too hard, and looks up into his face, trying to smile. “Guess I should take off.”

“Uh, no,” Sam says, grabbing his arm and holding him steady as he tries to take a staggering step away. “No way you’re driving in your condition,” he says. “You’re crashing here tonight.”

He expects Dean to protest at least a little, but he doesn’t say anything as Sam half-drags, half-carries him up the stairs. It’s not until he gets to the upstairs landing that it occurs to him that he doesn’t even know where he’s going. Dean’s bed, all of his things, are at his new place downtown, near the garage where he works. All that’s left in Dean’s old room are a couple of boxes. But he shrugs it off and leads Dean into his own bedroom, pushing him toward the bed before he can say anything about it. “Lie down,” he says. “You look like hell.”

Dean, who’d been quiet except sick-sounding little groans the whole way up the stairs, seems to come back to himself a little now that he doesn’t have to try and hold himself up anymore. “That was some party, huh?” he murmurs. Normally, the words would probably have an acerbic bite to them, but now he just sounds like his mouth is full of cotton.

Sam settles on the bed next to him and looks up into Dean’s flushed, dazed face. “Yeah, it was,” he says. He hesitates a minute, thinking that it’s late and they’ve both been drinking and probably, he can just let this go. But he can’t. Not really. He sighs. “Look, man,” he says, “I’m sorry about the way those people treated you.”

Dean shrugs it off, much as he can lying flat on his back. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” He leans down and starts to untie Dean’s shoes just to give himself something to do, not wanting Dean to see his face. He feels like a hypocrite, saying it, knowing that in the last year or so, he’s made it no secret that he’s ashamed of his drunk, useless brother. Whatever those people might have said behind their hands, he’s said worse and they both know it. And what Dean says next just makes that worse.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he says. “For… you know. For everything. I haven’t been there for you and… and I’m sorry for that. You’re all smart and grown up and I never…” He’s rambling, stuck in some grotesque drunken melancholy that makes Sam’s insides ache. “I never done a thing but drag you down and I wanna make it up to you. I want to. I’ll - I’ll do anything you want, I swear to God. Anything. I just don’t want you to leave thinkin’…” He swallows audibly. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

Sam sighs. “I don’t hate you, Dean,” he says. He slips one of his shoes off, still not looking at him. He laughs a little, awkwardly, staring down at Dean’s dirty work boot. “I mean, yeah, I’ve been… embarrassed or ashamed or disappointed. But I’ve never hated you. It’s alright.” He touches Dean’s leg and then sort of thinks better of it and pulls away. “It’s gonna be alright.”

He hears Dean let out a pained little breath and makes the mistake of looking up at him. Dean looks worn down and helpless, old almost, and it’s a little bit sick and awful. He looks up at him steadily, for someone who couldn’t walk on his own five minutes ago. “You know,” he says, so soft, so slurred, “you know how much I love you.”

“Mmhmm,” Sam says, staring down at his hands, twisting them together, trying to quell the strange, tight feeling inside him. He doesn’t know, is the thing. Dean’s never said anything like that to him before.

“I mean it,” Dean says. He props himself up on his elbows, trying to meet Sam’s eyes. “I know I don’t always show it right, but I do. I fucking love you, Sammy.” He’s almost begging, and he reaches out for Sam, hanging on to his sleeve. “Please,” he whispers, and Sam has no idea what he’s asking for.

“Shh,” he says, pulling his sleeve out of Dean’s grasping fingers. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I love you too. Just lie back, alright?” He finishes with Dean’s shoes and sets them down on the floor. He still can’t bring himself to look into his brother’s flushed red, drink-slack face, so he turns on the bed and leans down to unbuckle Dean’s belt.

Dean groans, deep in his throat, the sound rumbling through both of them. “So that’s how it is, huh?” he asks, gravelly, his eyes heavy-lidded. “That’s what you want?” Sam gapes at him, his mouth opening and closing silently as he struggles to find the right words for this… this… But before he’s anywhere close to wrapping his head around it, Dean reaches up with a shaking hand and strokes down the front of his pants, just lightly, but it’s still enough to make him shudder and moan. He realizes all at once that he’s hard, and he doesn’t know when that happened. There’s no good answer - either he got that way sometime in the last hour from Dean hanging all over him and blowing in his ear, or he popped a boner almost instantly from his brother propositioning him. Dean strokes him again, his hand curling over the contour of Sam’s aching erection, and yeah, he can feel it too. And if Dean had smirked up at him, given him that cocky, I’m-just-that-good look he’s seen Dean give to a hundred faceless girls, he would have slapped his hand away and made a run for it. Instead, his expression is unreadable. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s what I thought.”

“What?” Sam asks, but Dean’s hooking his fingers into Sam’s belt loops and doesn’t seem to notice. He grips Sam’s hips a little too hard and shifts them both so Sam goes from kneeling next to him to straddling his waist, and the sight of his brother’s hard, lean body between his thighs makes Sam shudder with another wave of sick arousal. “Dean,” he says weakly, “what are you doing?”

Dean lies back under him and tries to crack a smile. “It makes sense doesn’t it?” he asks, “I mean, what else am I good for, right?”

“Dean,” Sam says, dismayed, “no…”

Dean looks up at him levelly, almost gravely, as if getting fall-down drunk and coming onto his brother is the most important thing he’s ever done. “Come on, man,” he says softly, still stroking Sam thorough the fabric of his jeans, “don’t tell me you can’t feel it.” And before Sam can say, uh, yes, he definitely can feel it and he’s pretty sure he’s not okay with this, Dean continues, “You know things were supposed to be different.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We were supposed to do something,” Dean says, softly. “To… to be something, I don’t know.” And Sam wants to tell him he’s just drunk and not making any sense, but what he’s saying feels _right_ somehow, so right it makes him ache deep down inside. And when Dean cups him gently and looks up at him with heavy green eyes, it’s just a part of that feeling, some deep need he can’t explain. “I shoulda…” Dean breathes. He seems to struggle for words, wets his lips and keeps going. “I was supposed to take care of you,” he says plaintively, his eyes too bright, “I was supposed to… but I screwed it up. I know I never been any good to you, Sammy. But this…” He looks down between them, rocking his hips gently, and for the first time, Sam realizes that Dean’s hard too. “I can do this.” 

“Shh,” Sam says, leaning down over Dean to put a finger to his lips. “You don’t gotta do anything,” he says, trying to ignore how warm and good, again, how _right_ , the sweet press of his body against Dean’s is. “You’ve done alright by me,” he says, wanting to mean it. “You don’t -” But he’s cut of by a feathery little sigh as Dean strokes up his sides, easing under his shirt. “Dean,” he whispers, his breath catching, and he doesn’t know if he means to say _stop_ or _please_.

“Feel good?” Dean asks. His hands are fully inside Sam’s shirt now, wandering vaguely, tracing warm, lingering trails into his skin.

Closing his eyes, Sam whispers, “Yeah.” 

“‘s all I want,” Dean murmurs. “Wanna be good for you, Sammy.” His big, strong hands are sliding up Sam’s back, a little tentative and clumsy, his palms rough with callouses, and Sam groans and presses back against the touch, wanting more. He tells himself it isn’t wrong as Dean’s arms come up around his neck, pulling him down so their bodies are tight together on the bed. And even though he can smell the alcohol on Dean more clearly than ever, even though Dean’s cock is pressing into his stomach and his own is digging into Dean’s thigh, it doesn’t feel wrong. What it feels like… the worst thing is, it feels more like _safe_ and _home_ than Sam’s ever understood before. “I need you,” Dean whispers, his breath warm against Sam’s cheek, and Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or moan or sob. Whatever sound comes out of him, he stifles it against Dean’s neck, and Dean just holds him closer. “S’okay, Sammy,” he murmurs. “s’okay.” He strokes Sam’s neck, just softly, and then his heavy arms are wrapping around Sam’s shoulders, encircling him, warm and strong and claiming in a way that makes Sam shiver with need. “I got you,” Dean whispers. “I got you.” And it’s too much, too much like something he’s needed his whole life. He really feels like crying now, like giving in and letting Dean hold him through it, feeling like his brother loves him for once in his godforsaken life. But deep down, he knows it would scare Dean away again, maybe for good this time, and right now, he’d rather die than let that happen. He has to be good and grateful, keep Dean here with him. So he does the only thing he can think to do: turns his head a little, and leans down a little, and kisses Dean softly on the lips.

Dean moans out against his mouth and opens up to him, the sweet, sticky taste of alcohol as strong as drinking out of the bottle. Sam feels a little more lightheaded just from the taste of his breath, and then Dean’s lips are pressing back against his and he’s drowning. It’s the taste and the warmth and knowing that it’s Dean - fuck, _Dean_ \- kissing him, Dean’s hands tangling in his hair, Dean’s tongue tracing against his teeth. It drags him down somewhere dark and desperate, where there’s no such thing as right and wrong and there’s never been anything but this. And with a shudder and a sigh, he gives into it, dark water closing over his head. That taste burns in his mouth, in his throat, warm and deep in his gut, and he slips his tongue into Dean’s mouth, wanting more.

Dean gives him that, gives what he can, winding his arms around Sam’s back and sucking on his tongue. It feels strange at first, too rough and too needy, but he’s starting to get the feeling that that’s how everything is with Dean. He pulls back a little, teasing at Dean’s open lips, and then sinking down again, softly. He hasn’t said anything, but Dean seems to understand. He eases off and lets Sam lead, kissing back languidly and running his hands up and down Sam’s spine. Sam bites down on Dean’s lip, making him stifle a curse, when he feels the pressure of a hand on his ass through the fabric of his jeans. “Sorry,” he whispers, kissing Dean’s lip where it’s starting to swell. Dean gives something between a groan and a growl and bites him back in retaliation where his jaw meets his neck. He sucks over the bite, making these wet, needy little sounds, and then, arching up, does it again under Sam’s chin, over his Adam’s apple, against his collarbone. “Dean,” Sam moans, feeling his hot tongue sliding up his throat, connecting the line of hot, softly pulsing bites, “Dean!”

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, mouthing over the last bite, the one on his jaw, and then tilting up to Sam’s mouth again. When one hand slips into Sam’s back pocket, he isn’t surprised this time. He just pushes Dean down on the bed and kisses him hard, knocking the breath out of him. He feels Dean’s hands clench up, one on his ass, the other nearly welded to his hip, relaxing as he opens up, willing and sloppy. He kisses Sam back greedily, groping him a little, and Sam finds himself pushing back into the touch. He cups Dean’s face, his flushed, damp cheek, and tongues him even deeper. Dean’s moaning and sucking and losing it a little, squirming under Sam, pressing his hips up. But he can barely move, and it’s not enough. Not for him, and not for Sam, either, so Sam grabs him, thumbs digging into his hot, sharp hipbones, and grinds them hard together. Dean lets out a sharp, hoarse shout, his eyelids fluttering against Sam’s cheek, his hands fisting up in Sam’s tee shirt. “God!” he pants. “Fuck, Sammy!”

“Yeah,” Sam answers, “Oh, yeah.” He feels too hot all of a sudden, feverish and crazy, like he’ll burn himself out from the inside. He pulls back and strips off his shirt, and then his pants, too, when that’s not enough. He’s kneeling over Dean in his underwear, with Dean lying there between his spread thighs, still fully clothed. “Take off your pants,” Sam gasps, surprised by the intensity of his own voice. He swallows. “I wanna see your cock,” he whispers. “Come on, Dean, please.”

Dean struggles for a minute before looking up at him with glassy eyes, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

Sam’s heart drops. “What do you mean, you can’t?” Is this too much for Dean? Maybe groping and grinding and making out in bed is one thing, but this is just too far. Maybe it’s Sam trying to get him naked, or showing so much skin, or maybe it’s just the desperation in his voice. Either way, he doesn’t want this to have to end because he got greedy. “We don’t gotta,” he says hoarsely, reaching for his shirt. “We can go back to what we were doing before, and -”

“Sam,” Dean says. “I want to, but…” He shakes his head. “I can’t.” And looking between them, Sam sees he’s got his fly and zipper undone and an inch or so of black underwear exposed but nothing else, and he understands. “You’re gonna have to do it for me, Sammy,” Dean says, hitching his hips weakly. “You can do that for me, right?” And Sam has a weird, wrong feeling about it, like if Dean can’t even get his pants off, maybe they should just stay where they are, maybe they should stop, maybe this shouldn’t be happening. But then he’s leaning down and easing his brother’s jeans down his bowed legs, and yes. This is alright. Dean sighs as Sam rests his forehead against his thigh, laying a light kiss to his skin. Then, a tight little moan as Sam moves up higher, sliding his fingers under the waistband of Dean’s underwear and pulling them down too.

Dean shudders as the air hits him, and Sam strokes his stomach, his hipbone, making soothing sounds. “S’arright, Dean,” he murmurs, and holds off on anything else until Dean stops shaking. Then, slowly, almost shyly, he wraps one hand around Dean’s straining dick, feeling his hardness, his heartbeat, his desperation. He gives a sort of clumsy, experimental stroke, and then leans down and kisses the tip, his lips dry and his heart in his throat. He has some idea of what he wants to do, but Dean’s cock looks so thick and bruising, and at the same time, so delicate, and all he can feel is the hot blood in his face and the tightness of his throat and his unrelenting teeth in his mouth. He backs up, unable to go any further.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” There’s something wrong in Dean’s face. His eyes are unfocused as ever, but averted away now. “Get up here,” he says, in a voice that would be rough if it wasn’t so thin and faint. His hand flops useless at Sam’s shoulder, trying to pull him up. “Listen to me,” he says, when Sam’s face to face with him again. “You don’t… not ever. Not for me.”

“Okay, Dean,” Sam says. “It’s okay. If you don’t want it -”

“You don’t understand,” Dean says, his voice breaking. “I’m not worth that, I’m not -”

“Shh,” Sam says, feeling the dark turn this could take and wanting to stop it. “It’s okay,” he repeats, and then kisses Dean long, slow and easy. He seems to calm down after a little, probably forgetting, even, what just happened. He starts pulling at his shirt, and Sam helps strip it off him, and then, as an afterthought, he kicks off his own underwear, too. He’s deep into not thinking about what he’s doing, but it still sort of occurs to him that he and his brother are naked in bed together, and maybe there’s something a little bit wrong with that. But then Dean’s hand finds him and gives him a good stroke, and he’s not thinking about that anymore.

“You ready?” Dean asks huskily.

“For what?’

Dean meets his eyes hazily. “For whatever you’re gonna do to me.”

Sam feels tight and hot and more than a little like he’s gonna shake apart. “Yeah,” he whispers. And he knows he shouldn’t feel this way, even now, he knows it, but when Dean spreads his legs, he falls between them and starts rutting up against his thigh like he doesn’t even have a choice.

“You wanna fuck me, Sammy?” Dean breathes. “Go on. Do it. Want you to fuck me.”

Sam looks down at him, flushed and wanton and begging like that, and grinds down again, harder, once, twice. “Dean,” he whispers frantically, and suddenly that’s all he wants to say, all he needs to say. “Dean!” And then he’s coming, before he can stop himself, before he’s ready, before he’s done even a fraction of what he meant to. A high, thin moan tears out of him, and his body arches back as the shocks shoot through him, lighting his world on fire. He comes down too soon, panting and shaking and still needing so much, only to see Dean underneath him panting hard, his stomach and legs a mess of Sam’s come, jerking himself off frantically. Sam can only watch the movement of his hand as his body spasms weakly, rocking his head back, and then he’s looking into his face, his glazed, half-open eyes.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. Then his eyes roll up and he shudders once and comes. He flops down on the bed, half turned away from Sam, and goes still.

 _Is that it?_ Sam wonders. He looks down at his hands, at the dirty, wrinkled sheet, anything not to look Dean in the face. _Oh, God, I screwed it up, didn’t I? I ruined it for both of us._ God, this hasn’t happened to him since he was a kid, just a stupid high school kid, and now here he is again, with nothing to show for himself but the mess drying on their skin and the sheets. Sam shakes himself out of his daze and leans over the side of the bed, coming back up with a handful of tissues. He cleans them both up the best he can, trying not to feel used up and pathetic. “Sorry about that,” he says, wadding up the tissues and throwing them away. “That doesn’t usually happen, I swear.”

Dean doesn’t answer him, and Sam feels a hot flush of shame creeping up his chest. “Really, I’m sorry,” he says. “I wanted it to be better. I wanted… I wanted all of it. I just -” But Dean still doesn’t say anything, not even to tell him that, yeah, he screwed up, or to stop babbling and just let it go, and that when he realizes something more could be wrong than his brother being disappointed in him.

“Dean,” he whispers, but Dean doesn’t even look at him. His face is immobile, his mouth hanging slack, the green of his eyes visible under his half-open lids. “Dean,” Sam says, insistently, but there’s nothing. His heart racing, Sam grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. “Dean,” he begs, “come on, Dean, come on!” His body is limp, his head lolling useless on his neck, but Sam hears a weak breath shudder out of him. Under his hand, Sam realizes he can feel a pulse, slow but regular in the big artery in Dean’s upper arm, can see the slight rise and fall of Dean’s chest. Sam sighs and brushes his eyes the rest of the way closed, lays him down gently on the bed. He’s passed out.

Now, wrung out and alone with Dean’s unconscious body, the gravity of what they’ve done starts to dawn on him. Doing that with his own brother… sick, is what it is. Fucking sick. Part of him wants to run out of here and just keep running, put as much space between him and this as there is in this godforsaken country. But he’s much too tired for that, deep, bone tired, and there’s a part of him, too, that wants to give in to this, just lie down beside his brother like he belongs there, like this is what he was made for. In the end, he doesn’t have either the guts to accept this or the strength to leave, so he just turns his back to Dean and tries to get some sleep. Remembers, vaguely, something he must have read once, and props Dean up on his side so if he pukes during the night, it won’t kill him. It occurs to him to wonder, as he pulls the covers up around them, if the people Dean usually shares a bed with would think to do that for him, or if they’d even care. It’s a cold thought and he tries to forget it, pressing his back up against Dean’s, sharing his warmth, telling himself that all this is okay, if only because tomorrow, Dean’ll wake up breathing.

 

Sam stops there, his head hanging down between his arms. “I knew it was wrong,” he says. “The whole time, I knew it, but… I wanted it too much. That’s the sick thing. I don’t even like guys, Dean. I don’t even think about that stuff, but if it meant being close to you…” He takes a shuddery breath. “That’s what I wanted. I mean, more than anything. You meant the world to me, Dean. You always did.”

Dean’s been watching Sam’s face this whole time, trying to understand this, but now, finally, he has to look away. _You meant the world to me_ , he said. But that was a long time ago. “And what happened then?” he asks, his voice slow and rusty. Sam looks away from him, like whatever comes next is even worse. “Come on, Sammy,” he pleads. “You know I don’t remember.”

Sam looks down and away again, his hands clenching on the rail, the tendons under his skin jumping. “The next day, I left for Stanford,” he says, not meeting Dean’s eyes. “I… I couldn’t face up to what we’d done, so I left. Next time I saw you, you wouldn’t even look at me.” He shakes his head. “And… and that’s all. That’s all there is.”

Dean can almost smell the lie on him, but he thinks he’s already pushed too far. So he just nods and stares out into the dark, yearning for another drink to push back the awful silence.

 

There’s a dull, throbbing drumbeat pulsing in the dark behind his eyes. It fills up his whole head, and lets him know that, somehow, he’s conscious again. He rolls his tongue in his parched, sour mouth, licks his cracked lips. He needs a drink - not more of whatever the hell he had last night, just water - but damned if he’s gonna get out of bed for that. At least he’s in a bed, this time, and not alone, either, from the warmth pressed up against his back. The sharp, stale smell of his own come hits him, and it’s all he needs to know. Last night must have been something.

He pries an eye open, just a slit, but the pain still cracks like a gunshot inside his skull. He moans thickly, and feels the nausea rising in his throat, but he chokes it down. Later, he tells himself. After he figures out where the fuck he is.

His vision has cleared enough that he can see the shapes of individual objects and know he’s not home. Questions, now, none of them good ones - _Where am I? Where’s my car? Who did I fuck last night?_ \- and the pounding in his head just gets worse. God, does he feel sick. He wants to close his eyes and just lie here feeling sorry for himself, but he knows from too many mornings like this that it won’t help him any. So he cracks his other eye open and tries to get a handle on what’s going on.

He can see the room around him better now, well enough to know that it is a bedroom and not some motel somewhere. There’s a desk stacked with books, and a dresser, and, on the far wall, a poster of one of those superheroes, like from the comic books his kid brother reads. Huh. So he fucked a geek chick. That’s a new one. Maybe another little friend of Sam’s, although he thought he learned his lesson the last time. He sucks in a breath. Oh, fuck. He hopes to hell she’s legal.

Probably about time he got out of here.

Feeling around much as he can without jarring his aching head, he manages to find his underwear, kicked down to the foot of the bed and tangled in the covers. He tries to slip them on without waking whoever it is next to him - the last thing he wants to do right now is slog through the awkward morning-after talk with some chick he doesn’t even remember. But he feels her moving on the bed next to him and freezes with his shorts partway up his thighs. Fuck. He stays still and breathes slow and hopes she’s just moving in her sleep.

No such luck. “Dean?” a voice asks, and fuck him if it isn’t a _man’s_ voice. What the hell? He considers bolting, but he feels dizzy just at the thought. Not likely he’d make it to the door, much less find his way out of here, wherever the hell here is. He pulls up his shorts the rest of the way at least, like that’ll do anything to preserve some shred of his dignity, and he buries his head in his hands. He wishes he could just pass out again and wake up somewhere else this time, somewhere where a blonde with a nice rack is making him coffee and not trying to talk to him. But it’s no good. It’s never any good. “Dean?” The voice comes again, and there’s something familiar about it this time. Too familiar. “You okay?” 

It can’t be what he thinks, he tells himself. It just can’t be. It’s his head or a trick of his memory or the alcohol still in his blood. Something. God, it has to be. Because if it is what he’s thinking… No. Even he wouldn’t. He looks up to reassure himself, fully expecting to see some stranger, and finds himself staring into his little brother’s open, honest face. “Sam?” he breathes. And then he scrambles off the bed and out of the room too fast to think about where he’s going. Doesn’t matter. He knows exactly where he is. His knees hit tile, and then he’s heaving his guts out. Rancid liquor stings his throat, his broken lips, strong and sour and mixed with bile. His eyes tear up as he retches again and again, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Eventually, there’s nothing left in him, and he collapses forward on his arms, surrounded by his own puke stink and half-nightmare memories he still can’t bring himself to believe. He groans thickly, kneeling there, tremors racing through his bent body. Then there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, and he curls in on himself, his stomach clenching all over again.

“Here,” Sam says from behind him, pressing a glass of water into his hand. Dean doesn’t even want to acknowledge him, but the inside of his mouth tastes foul, and his lips are so dry they’re nearly bleeding. He washes his mouth out and gulps the rest of the water down, holding the cool glass to his forehead when he’s done. He can feel Sam watching him, and it just about makes him want to die. “You alright?” he asks, and Dean’s whole body coils tight.

“No, Sam,” he says roughly. “No, I’m not alright.”

“Yeah, you don’t look so good,” Sam says. “Maybe you should get back to bed.” And one his his big hands comes down heavy on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean recoils sharply, slamming his back up against the wall. “Don’t touch me!” he spits.

“Dean -”

“Don’t,” Dean growls. “Don’t even. After what you -” He’s shaking again, and he draws his knees up against his naked chest. He feels so fucking _exposed_. “What did you do to me?” he asks, brokenly.

“You don’t remember?” Sam asks.

Dean glances up at Sam, and it’s too much. He’s standing there with only a towel wrapped around his skinny hips, with his hair all messed up and a trail of dark, unmistakeable bite marks from his jaw to his shoulder, paler fingertip bruises on the swell of his hip. He looks so fucked-out and naked, and so fucking _young_ , and with the things that come rushing back, Dean has to look away. “No,” he lies. “I don’t remember any of it. I was drunk, I…” _Yeah, that’s it deny it. It was the booze that did those things, not you. That’s what grabbed your baby brother’s junk and shoved your tongue down his throat and begged to be fucked into the mattress. You wouldn’t do those things, would you? You aren’t that cheap or that sick or that low._ He struggles with the feeling clawing up the back of his throat, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to scream or hurl again or just start fucking sobbing. “It shouldn’t have happened,” he chokes out. “It just shouldn’t have fucking happened.”

“Dean…” Sam says, standing over him, helpless and empty. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you say that to me!” Dean spits. It’s all wrong. It’s all fucking wrong, and maybe Sam’s been the stupid one all along if he doesn’t see it. For what he did, Sam should be… he doesn’t even know. Running the fuck away from him. Calling the cops. Kicking him until his chest caves in. But whatever the sane, smart thing for Sam to do would be, it’s not this. Not standing here all naked and vulnerable, saying he’s fucking _sorry_ when he’s not the one who - “Get out of here,” Dean says hoarsely, and it’s the only thing he can do.

“What?” Sam asks, taking a step toward him, and he cringes back against the wall.

“Get the fuck away from me!” he snarls, and Sam backs away, his expression shocked and sick.

“Dean,” he says, pleadingly, “Don’t do this. Don’t-”

“Go to hell,” Dean snaps. He’s shaking hard now, and on the verge of crying, but he can’t let Sam see it. “I don’t ever want to see your face again, you understand me? Just… just get out of here. Go have that bright fucking future that everyone’s been talking about. Just go. Just - just get out.”

Sam stares at him openmouthed for another couple of seconds, and Dean doesn’t even want to know what he sees. “I walk out that door, Dean,” he says, slow and dazed, “I’m not ever gonna come back.”

Staring down at the tile. Dean whispers, “Fine.”

“Fine,” Sam repeats, and then he’s gone. Dean doesn’t even look up to see Sam walk out of his life. He just hears the door bang shut behind him.


End file.
